


passages

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfamily, Batman - Freeform, Ficlets, Gen, Outtakes, Unfinished
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:21:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23653000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: Outtakes, ficlets, and unfinished ideas I never posted in the DC universe.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 77





	1. Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Written when I didn't like my writing much, but the ideas were still solid. So go easy on past me ;)

Summary: In his dreams, Gotham changes. In his dreams, a world _shifts_.

* * *

_“Good morning, Gotham. This is Janet down at GCZR. The time is 8:30 AM. It’s a foggy Monday here in south Gotham. We’ll go to David with your morning news update. David?”_

Jim groans, rolling over. He pushes his face into his pillow, willing the radio to turn off. The smell of cheap cotton fills his senses, paired with last night’s sweat and bourbon. 

_I don’t remember opening that._

He squints at his bedside table. It was littered with beer bottles. In the center is a half-empty bottle of Beam, teetering close to the edge. 

_...fuck._

He pushes himself up from the mattress, wincing as his back threatens to seize up. The small apartment is unbearably stuffy. The windows are shut completely--strange, considering he doesn’t remember closing them. 

A quick glance at his legs reveals the inevitable. He’d slept in his clothes, yet again. 

_Might as well save money on pajamas,_ he thinks, stumbling towards the closet. _When was the last time I did laundry?_

_“Hi, Janet. Nice weather we’re having this morning, huh? We’ve got some updates from our traffic cam for some eager listeners…”_

The closet door opens on the third try, the knob squeaking under his fingers. He studiously ignores the small collection of photos on the far wall. Barbara’s eyes seem to follow him as he pages through the closet. 

_“...as you can see, last night’s shooting incident on I-88 left some debris on the road, so if you’re thinking about taking the interstate downtown this morning, think again.”_

His hangover asserts itself behind his eyes, pounding against his skull as he squints at collars and lapels. 

_“David, we’ve got storms coming through tonight. Any chance of severe weather?”_

_“Well, Janet, we might see some patches of heavy rain, with the possibility of flash flooding on the south side. If you’re planning on going out this week, tonight is_ not _your best choice.”_

Jim snorts. He grabs a light blue shirt off a hanger, sniffing it experimentally. 

_“Folks, you heard it here first. Thanks, David. This is Janet down at GCZR. Have a great day, and try to stay dry tonight!”_

* * *

“Sergeant.”

Jim blinks, taking the mug before it collided with his nose. Ramirez smirks, joining him at the table. 

“How’s the case?”

“Which one,” he asks, taking a sip. 

As usual, Ramirez’s coffee is strong enough to melt a spoon. His hangover lessens briefly at the taste, and he drinks more greedily. 

“The Griffin murders? Gang violence down on 23rd last night?”

Across the main floor, a woman walks by, a briefcase in hand. Under her other arm, a young girl shivers, pressed close to her side. She is dressed in torn clothing, a ragged cut across one cheekbone. 

For a moment, Jim can’t look away. 

“Our local mystery,” Ramirez wiggles her eyebrows, oblivious to his lack of attention. “It’s all anyone’s talking about down in the bullpen. We got another sighting last night.”

The girl ducks her head, looking away. Jim’s heart begins to ache, a dull pain growing in his sternum. She is tugged away by the woman, a pair of detectives following a step behind them. 

“Jim. Jimbo,” Ramirez waves her hand in front of his face, “You with me?” 

“The vigilante,” Jim says, shaking his head. He regrets it immediately, his stomach rolling. “You mean all those hack reports about some ‘guardian’ angel?”

Ramirez grins at him. “Don’t tell me you’re not a believer, Sergeant.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Jim mutters, taking another sip from the mug, “Until then, a few dozen phone calls about some man in a cape isn’t worth investigating.”

“I don’t know about that. Jerry says it is.”

“Jerry’s full of shit,” Jim says, getting a snort from the woman. “He thinks global warming is a conspiracy by the government to make money off solar energy.”

Ramirez shrugs, sending him a _look._

“I’ll admit, it isn’t the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

* * *

There’s a danger in caring too much. 

He knows this. Has known this, for many years. And yet, he finds himself thinking, finds himself caring, over cigarettes and bottles of jack and a screen of unanswered phone calls. 

There are not enough hours in the day to put the pieces of their worlds back together. There is no magic reset button. There is no way to tie it up, at the end of the day, and tell a person _you’re fine._

_Everything is fine. This won’t change you. You will never think about this again._

* * *

The little girl gets two rape kits and a lollipop. 

On closer inspection, the situation is even more heartbreaking. Her lip is split in three places. She stares at the sucker in confusion, leaving it on the table. 

Jim watches as blood wells in the cracks of her mouth. The social worker talks rapid-fire, her words blurring together. The girl at her side cannot be more than six. She says absolutely nothing. 

The lollipop is cherry. He knows, somehow, that the girl loves this flavor. Knows this inexplicably, his mind still foggy from too little sleep, and not enough coffee. 

She leaves the lollipop on the table when they leave. Jim watches her tiny frame, noting the pronounced limp--the way her knees buckle in pain with every step. The way she cannot stand straight without wincing.

He looks away, bile rising in his throat. 

The lollipop is swept into the garbage can with a shaking hand.

* * *

It’s dark when he returns home. 

(it usually is)

Long ago, Barbara had been endearingly strict about his curfew. _Back before sunset, or I’m calling the station,_ she’d laugh, swatting at him, _I’m serious, Jim._

He’d never doubted her. Gotham after dark was a terrifying place, even a few miles outside downtown. Crime surged at dusk. 

(some didn’t wait for the cover of darkness at all, and those were the ones to really be afraid of, he’d always thought)

Barbara’s fears had been well-founded, as silly as she’d seemed to him, then. 

(she didn’t have her fingers deep in Gotham dirt. she hadn’t grown up here like he had, clawing at the streets each night, and yet, she _knew_ )

* * *

It’s a rare day he returns home before nine PM. Today, it’s closer to eleven. He kicks open his shitty door, a sheaf of papers under one arm. He inhales off his shitty marlboro and thinks about the shitty couch, or the shitty bed he’ll collapse on, an hour or two from now. 

The storms were well on their way--a few miles out from town, judging by the aching in his knees. He can feel the impending rain like a physical touch, buzzing under his skin. 

The thought of storms exhausts him, somehow. 

The bottle of Jim Beam is still on the bedside table when he collapses across his mattress. He kicks off his shoes, wincing as his headache returns with a vengeance. A quick swig placates most of his worries. 

Outside, he can hear the beginning drizzle, tapping against his window. He stubs out his cigarette, throwing the papers to the floor. He puts a hand over his eyes, willing the thudding headache away. 

In between one moment and the next, he is asleep.

* * *

The pounding thunder startles him awake. Outside, the window rattles in its frame, scratching against the rusted metal. 

He fumbles blindly for his glasses. His hand hits the scratchy bedspread, sliding across worn cotton. Lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating the apartment briefly. 

Outside, rain pours down in sheets. He can feel the thudding of water like a headache, a pounding pressure behind his eyes. 

He has the sudden, irrational urge to light up outside, rain be damned. 

He grabs the pack of Marlboros off the bedside table, digging for a lighter in the drawer. In his crumpled dress shirt, he stumbles outside, half-asleep. 

The rain is blessedly cool on his face. He cups his hands, shielding the lighter from the downpour. A puff of smoke drifts across the small balcony, disappearing into the night. 

Gotham is a mixture of blacks and greys beneath him. In the distance, streetlamps flicker on and off. The sky is a swollen purple, split by flashes of lightning. The air is charged, thick and unyielding.

He inhales the bitter taste of nicotine, watching the city wash itself clean. A moment of peace comes over him. 

For the first time in weeks, he doesn’t crave alcohol. He can’t imagine the taste of whiskey right now, staring out across Gotham’s skyline. 

_How strange,_ he thinks, dazedly, _that this city can be beautiful._

A clap of thunder startles him from his reverie. Lightning streaks across the sky, nearly blinding him. There is no delay between the two. The storm is directly above him. 

A muffled noise reaches his ears. He tilts his head, only half-listening. 

“-- _go! Help!”_

The voice cuts off just as he turns towards the sidewalk. He stubs his cigarette out on the ashtray, leaning over the railing. 

In the narrow alley below, a woman is cornered. Three figures crowd her against the wall, shadowed by the pouring rain. Metal flashes in their hands, catching the shuttered light from above. 

Jim moves without thinking. His gun is on the kitchen table, still loaded. He shoves it in his pocket and stumbles back out onto the balcony. 

Below, the men exchange a few words, muffled by the rain. They gesture at the woman, as if in discussion. 

He slides down the escape stairs, amazed when the rusted bolts don’t so much as squeak. The metal is slick under his palms, but he doesn’t slip. He descends the three flights in silence, a dream-like quality to his movements. 

The men don’t see him coming. His footsteps don’t make a sound. The raindrops freeze in place, hanging around him. He steps around them. 

In a second, the men are on the ground, unconscious. 

The rain disappears completely. He blinks, his mind attempting to process the sudden change. One of the men groans, shifting on the cobblestones. 

_What the..._

The woman is trembling against the wall, staring at him with wide eyes. There is blood across her face. He realizes, slowly, that there is blood on his hands. There is blood in his mouth, bitter against his tongue. 

He opens his mouth to say something, to calm her, to apologize, _something_. 

_“I--”_

A sudden wave of fear surges through him, cutting off his stumbling apology. Dread pours through him, flipping his stomach. He can feel his hair standing up on end. 

_What the fuck..._

The woman freezes, her eyes locked on something above his shoulder. He moves to stand in front of her, fumbling for his gun. 

At the mouth of the alley, the street lamps disappear. The dim light from the apartments above is leached into the shadows. Darkness falls; a true, blinding, darkness. 

He can hear the woman breathing behind him, in short little gasps. His heart begins to race. Something instinctual rises in him, begging him to grab her and run. To bare his teeth and _fight._

The shadow at the other end of the alley grows darker, if possible. He doesn’t know how a shadow can be any darker--and yet, there is a gaping hole at the alley’s mouth, dark and oily, impossible to look at directly. 

He feels the woman grab for his hand, and holds it tightly. 

A pair of glowing eyes open at the center of the shadow. Ozone fills the air, mixing with the sharp scent of rain. It takes a step forward, slowly. Jim’s stomach turns over; the woman cries out in fear, squeezing his hand. 

“Get back,” he shouts, raising his gun, “or I’ll shoot!”

The eyes blink, then disappear. 

_didn’t expect that to work. holy shit, holy fucking shit--_

The woman lets out a relieved breath, trembling against him. He pats her shoulder, stuffing the gun back in his pocket. 

The alley brightens considerably, the shadows dissipating before he can really study them. The rain resumes, soaking them instantly. He jumps as it touches his skin, startled. 

The woman is still shaking when he turns to her, releasing her hand. She shifts forward, as if to grab it back again. The blood on her forehead seems to be her only injury. 

“Are you alright?” he asks softly, not wanting to startle her. “Miss?”

“I--I’m okay,” she says,. Her eyes are wide--a soft green, he thinks, “I just…”

He puts a hand on her shoulder. “You need to make a report. At the station.”

“I can...I can do that.” 

“Good,” he attempts a smile, turning towards the street. It comes out as a grimace, he’s sure, but the effort is there. “Do you want me to call you a taxi?”

She doesn’t respond. 

“Miss--”

The alley is completely empty. For a moment, all he can do is stare at the alley wall, dumbfounded. 

_There was no way she could have slipped by me. I was in between her and the street the entire time._

Thunder rumbles distantly above him. He glances skyward, shocked to see a dim light to the east. 

_Dawn,_ he realizes, shocked, _it’s morning._

Gotham glows in the morning sun, the tops of buildings reflecting the light down to the grey sidewalks below. The rain is gone; the pavement is completely dry. 

The streets are inexplicably silent. 

He steps out of the alley, craning his neck to watch the rising sun. A man bumps into him, hurrying along the sidewalk. He doesn’t look back. 

“Hey,” Jim turns, calling after him, “ _Hey_!”

He steps forward, only to stumble. A shadow sweeps over the sun. Darkness rushes towards him, and he knows nothing.

* * *

He wakes with a start. 

The bed is rumpled, his sheets thrown haphazardly onto the floor. His pillow is soaked with sweat. The bottle and cigarettes are still on the bedside table, undisturbed. 

The room is dark. He breathes a sigh of relief, putting a hand to his chest. His heart continues to race, pounding underneath his hand. 

_doctor always told you this might happen, huh, Jim?_ he thinks, _gotta eat better. get more sleep._

There is at least an hour left before his alarm goes off. He stumbles to his feet, still caught within whatever strange dream that had been. The window is open, a cool breeze blowing in. 

Outside, the sky is a dull grey. No strange, sudden sunshine. A reassuring crowd of businessmen and women hurry down the sidewalk. 

His hands are trembling--itching for a cigarette, most likely. He forces himself to sit down, willing away the panic. He thumbs his lighter, scratching at the base. 

_It was just a dream,_ he thinks, recalling the strange eyes, _just a crazy, fucked-up dream. Go back to sleep._

His heart skips a beat as his gaze settles on his hands. His knuckles are mottled blue. Blood wells within shallow cuts across his hands, clotting slowly. He drops the lighter onto the bed, shocked. 

_What the fuck…_

He flexes his hands experimentally, remembering the alleyway in strange clarity. His hands ache. 

It had felt so real, and yet--not. It couldn’t have been real. None of it could. 

_It was a dream,_ he repeats, eyeing the bottle of Jim Beam, _you hit your hands while you were sleeping. That’s it._

He grabs the bottle and opens it, taking a long pull. Work is in an hour. It wouldn’t be the first time he showed up drunk--and probably not the last. 

_Just a stupid fucking dream,_ he thinks.

/end


	2. of carpets and coffee tables

Summary: Five times Bruce Wayne passed out somewhere that wasn’t his bed, and one time he did.

* * *

  * **Dick’s Apartment**



He unlocked the door slowly, fumbling with the keys. A long day of training and working out had left him unbearably sore; he could feel the pull in his arms as he lifted the key to the lock, wincing as the muscles burned. 

_ I’m never doing crossfit again, not even if Reggie asks.  _

His apartment was, as usual, lifeless. He threw his keys in the dish by the door, slinging his jacket over the couch. The lamps were off; the only light crept in from the streetlamps below, coloring the room bright orange. 

He walked over to the fridge. The contents hadn’t changed much since last night. Peanut butter, three eggs, a half-moldy apple, and some leftover quinoa from Babs’ last visit. 

_ Great. Time to get some food.  _

He turned to grab his jacket, closing the door. The light from the fridge glanced off something by the sofa, making him pause. 

_ What the… _

He grabbed his emergency set of escrima sticks from behind the stove, stepping quietly over to the living room. Sure enough, there was a familiar-looking form wedged between the sofa and the coffee table. 

“Bruce,” Dick said, incredulous. “ _ Bruce _ .” 

The older man didn’t so much as flinch. He had his face buried in his elbow, breathing quietly. From the exhausted way he was laying, Dick could tell he hadn’t slept for days. 

“ _ Bruce!” _

The other man flinched awake, his hand going for the leg of the coffee table. Dick barely had time to leap out of the way as thirty pounds of wood and glass launched towards him,  _ fast _ . 

“What the  _ fuck _ Bruce!”

Bruce was still lying on his stomach. He blinked up at Dick, dazed. There were dark circles under his eyes. He yawned, almost as an afterthought. 

“Sorry...thought you were an,” he yawned again, leaning forward until he was horizontal again, “...intruder.”

Dick turned around, examining the pile of shattered glass that used to be his coffee table. Bruce followed his gaze, frowning. 

“Do you know how long I spent putting that together?”

The older man looked unrepentant. “I’ll buy you another one.”

“What are you  _ doing  _ here? It’s three AM, Bruce.”

“Had some...reports,” Bruce blinked up at him, looking adorably confused. He gestured at some papers pinned under his hip. “I...fell asleep.”

Dick put his hands on his hips. “I have a sofa, you know.”

“It’s not comfortable.”

“And the ground is?”

“Mhm,” Bruce stretched out, closing his eyes. “My back...just...two more minutes…’kay?”

Dick watched in disbelief as the other man fell asleep instantly, his head tucked in between his arms. Soft snoring reached his ears, and he knew that it was only years of working together that let Bruce let go like this. 

He picked up his phone, stepping out into the hallway. With a last glance at Bruce, he dialed Alfred’s number. 

“Hey. It’s Dick. Are you missing a sleep-deprived idiot?”

The butler paused. 

“Which one?”

“Funny. The older one.”

“Oh,” Alfred didn’t sound surprised at all, “Is he alright?” 

“He broke my coffee table.”

“Sounds about right,” the butler muttered, shifting the receiver, “Can I assume he’s spending the night?”

Dick peeked back through the crack in the door. Bruce was dead asleep. Possibly drooling into his shag carpet. It wasn’t immediately clear. 

“He’s not moving for at least seven hours.”

“Good,” Alfred said, a hint of heat in his voice, “I was about to drug him again. You know how he gets with these longer cases.”

Dick had sudden flashbacks to Alfred dumping suspicious substances into Bruce’s tea, and shook his head. Four or five days without sleep was more than unhealthy--and those tranquilizers could knock out horses. 

“I’ll watch him. You don’t have to worry.”

“You have my eternal thanks,” Alfred said, “Good night.”

“Night.”

Dick hung up, glancing back at his apartment. He pulled the door open slowly, willing it not to creak. 

Bruce snuffled softly at his entrance, still keeping an eye on the room, somehow. He had kicked up one leg, bent unnaturally against the couch. 

Dick felt a sudden wave of fondness, grinning down at his father. 

“You thought your back hurt earlier,” he whispered, “You have  _ no  _ idea.”

/end

* * *

  * **Alfred’s Shoulder**


  * Jason’s Bed


  * JL Couch


  * Manor Roof



**(+1: Robin pile up when he’s sick, California King)**


	3. gotham nights

Jim wasn’t quite sure how he ended up driving to Wayne Manor.

He had been working, that he remembered clearly. It had been a rough couple of weeks in Gotham. Poison Ivy had done her best to turn the Upper East Side into a rainforest, using car-sized vines that blocked off any and all traffic in the area for  _ days.  _

Meanwhile, Black Mask and the Penguin had broken into another skirmish that was teetering on the edge of escalating into an all out gang war. Only three people had been killed, but the confrontation had caused a lot of chaos by the docks. The crime families had been unofficially (and officially for that matter) displeased by the interruption to their business. And quite vocal about it, within either forum. 

Jim was not looking forward to when the fighting really broke out.

And suddenly, between the shouting and the screaming and the bodily fluids, he had gotten off work. Steering wheel in hand, he was driving close to sixty. He drove without thinking, turning onto a secluded road, desperate to be free from Gotham’s troubles for just one night. 

He was only a few thousand feet away from Wayne Manor before his tired mind could comprehend just  _ exactly  _ where he’d driven. The not-so-unfamiliar foliage blurred around him, framing a distant mansion, shadowed in the twilight. 

It was stupid, moronic even, to be driving down this driveway, like he belonged on it, like he had any right to disturb the family home. These weeks hadn’t been that much worse than usual but--

But. He had the overwhelming, undeniable desire to talk to the family face to face, instead of on cold windy rooftops. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he’d always known. Known that the jawline he’d seen in the dim light from the streetlamps--the shock of red hair under a cowl--the way they  _ held  _ themselves, so carefully when they spoke to him--he’d known, somewhere in between one moment and the next, exactly who the Wayne family  _ was _ . 

He had, and he was sure he would have in the future, the reassuring conversation, the assurance that they would get through it, even if it was all the white lies they told themselves to get through.

/end


	4. and you and i

Summary: A series of murders calls the Dark Knight back to his city.

* * *

It wasn’t raining. 

Jim almost wished it was. There was something about the foreboding drive to Wayne Manor, snaking through trees and between cliffs, that begged for the gothic imagery. 

The Manor seemed to loom over him, the edges of the lattice and woodwork catching the last rays of the sunset. Outlined against the fading night sky, it was larger than life. 

Wayne Manor was remote, secluded in a way that put off even the most ambitious of Gotham’s reporters. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had been out here, though they’d certainly talked about it. Wayne Manor had always been a reverent piece of gossip, around as long as the Waynes themselves. 

He steeled himself, straightening his collar. With some effort, he climbed the front steps, his heart pounding. The knocker in the center of the door was brass. He grasped it in his hand, letting it fall against the hardwood. 

A long moment passed. Behind him, a frog croaked, droning on in the intervening silence. Jim shifted, silently willing away the nervous energy in his legs. 

The door opened, swinging inward, painstakingly slow. Jim held his breath. 

_ A recluse,  _ he remembered, smiling vaguely.  _ That’s what they called him. Still call him-- _

Wayne was leaning against the door jamb, his expression inscrutable. It was painfully familiar, even without the mask. Jim bit down on his tongue, wondering how he’d never put the connection together in his mind till today--it had always been a hunch. An educated guess--and a good one, it turned out. 

Wayne looked him up and down, not bothering to hide his assessment. A long pause followed, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Jim let it fall over him, remembering the nights on the GCPD rooftop. 

“You’re getting old,” Wayne said, simply. 

It was that voice--that  _ voice,  _ the one with hints of  _ him  _ in it, the undertones of something darker, something larger--and yet--it was still Wayne, somehow, frowning down at him. Still a man hiding behind a handsome face. 

Jim was transfixed by the eerie blue of the man’s eyes. For a moment, he forgot how to speak, his throat constricted. 

There was the same kind of presence settling in the man before him, commanding attention and fear by nature of  _ being _ . He’d felt it before. It’d been years. 

_ It’s really him,  _ he thought, dazed. 

“I guess I don’t--don’t need to introduce myself,” Jim finally forced out, thinking of rooftops and alleys and backyards and in-between meetings in all of them. “May I come in?”

Wayne waved him inside, stepping away from the door. In the foyer’s light, he was even younger than Jim would have guessed. He blinked, running through the numbers in his head. 

A hand touched his arm, startling him. 

“Your coat,” Wayne said, those strange eyes settling on him again. He smirked faintly, as if amused by his confusion. “Can I take it?” 

Jim folded it hastily, handing it over. Wayne hung it carefully on the coat rack, gesturing towards the center of the house. He followed in a daze, struggling to keep his eyes on the man as they passed priceless art and pottery, displayed in dim cases. 

Wayne led him to the kitchen, offering him a seat wordlessly. There was a bottle of wine sitting on the empty counter, a corkscrew next to it. A copy of the newspaper was beside it, marked thoroughly in pen. 

Jim sat, his heart still pounding in his chest. He gripped the edges of the leather chair, willing his nerves to calm. 

The billionaire uncorked the wine gracefully, pouring two glasses before Jim could protest. He took the wine but didn’t sip, watching Wayne over the rim. The tension between them rose, though the farce had long ended. 

“We need you back,” Jim said, when Wayne made no move to speak. “There’s been murders. Five of them.”

Blue eyes turned on him, unflinching. “I saw.”

“Then you know the police have nothing,” Jim set the wine glass on the countertop. “You know we can’t do this alone. Not when  _ he’s  _ out there. Not when he could kill another, any day now.”

He could see his fury reflected in Wayne’s eyes, smothered by icy calm. 

“You’re wasting your time, Commissioner.” Wayne shook his head, a hint of a smile on his lips. He had a strangely elegant way of saying the word--it had always stuck out to him. Respectful. Deferential, even. “I’m sorry you rode all the way out here--”

“We need you,” Jim said, gripping the countertop. He leaned towards the billionaire. “ _ Gotham  _ needs you. There was a time where you and I were the only ones who could do anything. Who were  _ willing-- _ ”

“And you saw what happened,” Wayne cut in, bitter. His eyes flashed, the first real sign of emotion Jim had seen all night. “You saw what Gotham became. We weren’t helping it. We were creating new problems as quickly as we were solving the old ones.”

“We were doing  _ good-- _ ”

“We were running in circles!” Wayne yelled, slamming a hand on the countertop. Jim flinched backwards. “Can’t you  _ understand  _ that?”

Outside, lightning cracked across the sky. The thunder followed a half-second later, shaking the window panes. Wayne’s hand tightened around his wine glass. 

“Batman was the best thing that ever happened to Gotham,” Jim said fiercely. He stood, squaring off with the taller man. “I don’t understand why, or even  _ how.  _ But you were a source of light when we had  _ nothing _ .” He shook his head in disbelief. “How dare you spit on that?”

Wayne smiled, something dangerous in the expression. He turned away, shaking his head. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” Jim said, following him around the countertop. “I’m talking about the five boys I pulled out of the river this week. About the slit throats the morticians tried their best to cover. About the mothers and fathers I had to tell  _ nothing  _ because I can’t explain to them why their boy was cut to the bone in Gotham harbor, and thrown in like a piece of  _ trash-- _ ”

The room spun suddenly, cutting his rant short. He put a hand out, feeling his knees buckle beneath him. Something in his chest ached, burning against his sternum. 

“ _ Jim,” a voice said above him. “Jim. Come on, you’ve got to--” _

He let out a gasp, inhaling so quickly it hurt. Wayne’s arms were around him, keeping his head from hitting the tile floor. The man was watching him, his icy mask fractured by concern. 

“Easy,” Wayne said, lifting him into his arms. He stood, maneuvering him with little effort. “Easy, Jim.”

The billionaire carried him into a nearby sitting room, laying him carefully on the couch. Jim leaned back with a gasp, his heart racing in his chest. He pressed a hand to his sternum in confusion, wincing. 

Wayne disappeared, returning with a glass of water from the kitchen. He offered it to Jim in wordless apology, who took it gratefully. 

“What--” He took a sip from the glass, his hand trembling. “--was  _ that _ .” 

“Heart attack,” Wayne replied, glancing briefly at the window. The thunderstorm seemed to have passed, disappearing as quickly as it had arrived. “Or, it almost was.”

“Almost?”

Wayne tilted his head, shrugging. He looked impossibly young in the dim lamplight. Twenty-five, maybe twenty-eight? It was impossible, and yet…

“I know what you’re thinking,” Wayne murmured, not looking away from the window. “The math doesn’t add up. You’re trying to figure out if it’s really me, or some replacement.”

Jim didn’t respond. He thumbed at the glass of water, willing his chest to settle. 

Wayne shook his head, as if clearing an unwanted thought. He stood abruptly, heading for the door. 

“You’ll stay the night,” he said, tone leaving little room for argument. “I’ll make up a suite. It’s too dangerous for you to drive.”

“Dangerous?”

But Wayne was already gone, disappearing through the doorway without a sound. Jim pressed a hand to his aching chest, mystified.

* * *

_A throat slit open always looked different._

Sometimes it was the angle of the cut--or how deep it was. If the blade was sharp enough, the gash could go all the way down to bone, encased in shiny cartilage. The vocal cords and the trachea would be cleaved in two, pumping out the body’s entire blood stores in less than a minute. 

Jim stared at the slit throat of a boy that couldn’t have been more than fourteen. Blood had congealed on the sidewalk around his head, gumming up into a layer of red as the rain continued to pound down around them. 

The boy’s throat gaped, a glint of bone poking through the horrible cut. Somewhere above his shoulder, a coroner’s camera flashed. 

He rose from the ground, gritting his teeth as his knees protested the movement. With steady hands, he reached into his pocket for a cigarette, stumbling off to a half-covered wall by the alley’s mouth. 

“Another one?”

Jim didn’t look up from his cigarette. He was conditioned to keep his eyes low, not glancing back at the shadow he knew was perched above his shoulder. 

“Same details as the last one,” he flicked the lighter closed, sliding it into his pocket. A second truck from the ME’s office drove past, skidding through a puddle.. “Young. Throat completely slit. No other evidence at the scene. Or, nothing we’ve found yet, at least.”

The other man remained silent. It was rare for him to say anything these days. Jim could tell the younger victims had rattled him, somehow. The fact that answers--or even a single lead--weren’t forthcoming couldn’t have helped. 

“When was he found?” the voice asked. 

“This evening. Less than an hour before.”

The man made a strange noise, a cross between disgust and confusion. 

“It’s getting worse.”

That was cryptic, and, as always, extremely frustrating. Jim took a deep drag on the Marlboro.

“ _ What’s _ getting worse?” 

There was the tell-tale silence behind him, alerting him to the man’s exit. He sighed, turning around to find an empty rafter behind him. The last few months in Gotham had been the same song and dance--cryptic warnings, a refusal to divulge information, and a hasty disappearance.   
  


“I’m gonna head back to the office.”

“And spend the rest of the night staring at a wall?” Ramirez asked, lips twitching. “I’m sure your wife misses you, Lieutenant.” 

Jim snorted. “Mind your own business, detective.”

* * *

Six throats slit in the past five months. No leads. No connections between the victims, except for the manner of death. And the age--all young boys. They could be dealing with a molester again, but the bodies were untouched otherwise. Almost painstakingly untouched--like the killer hadn’t wanted to leave any clues. 

He found himself standing at Mercy Grounds cemetery later that night, almost by accident. 


	5. Chapter 5

Summary: Five times Tony called Bruce, and one time Bruce called Tony. 

**Food**

“He’s eating too much.”

Bruce scrubbed a hand across his face, rolling onto his back. The light from his phone split the bedroom, painfully bright. He clenched his eyes shut, willing himself awake. “What?”

“He’s eating too much food,” the voice on the phone repeated, slightly more frantic. “He had two lunches today. Then a couple snacks. Then dinner. Then  _ second dinner.  _ Then Stephen made dessert and he ate  _ half  _ of it and now he’s downstairs on his eighth bag of fruit snacks, which,” the voice paused for breath, “is  _ a ludicrous  _ amount of calcium for one p--”

“Tony.”

“--and even taking into account his enhanced metabolism, Stephen said he might be reducing his energy levels with the added vitamin B, which could explain why he got an eighty-nine on his math test yesterday. An  _ eighty-nine,  _ Bruce!”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table.  _ Three AM. Great.  _ “An eighty-nine isn’t...horrible.”

“That’s what you picked out of that?” Tony asked, aghast. In the background of the call, he could hear heavy metal music, pounding down the line. “Bruce, that’s basically a B!”

“Well,” Bruce countered, resisting a yawn. He considered getting up, but only managed to lift his head. “it’s a low A in the humanities.”

“I’m starting him on a--a food diary, or whatever the hell it’s called,” Tony said, not dignifying that with an answer. “I’m spending thousands on food every week since he moved in.”

“To be fair, he’s a growing teenager,” Bruce said. “And you skip meals all the time, Tony. You just spend your food money on alcohol instead.”

“Not anymore,” Tony muttered, barely audible down the line. Bruce raised an eyebrow, but there was no elaboration. “Shit, he just opened the ninth fruit snack. FRIDAY, gimme a sugar count.”

“ _ Three hundred and sixty five grams in the last hour, sir. _ ” a pleasant female voice responded. Tony made a squawking noise, dropping something loudly on the other side of the call. 

“I’m calling Stephen,” he said into the receiver, “We’re having an intervention.”

“ _ Tony _ .” Bruce said, finally sitting upright. “It’s three in the morning. Go to bed.”

“Bruce, he isn’t even sick yet. He ate ten packages of fruit snacks and he’s just  _ laying  _ there--”

“Take a breath,” Bruce warned, “Resist the urge to intervene. He’s a teenager, Tony. They do weird things like that.”

“I never--”

“We weren’t normal teenagers,” Bruce interrupted, cutting him off. “Look, when Jason hit puberty, he ate nothing but blood-rare steaks for a week. It was weird, but it passed. Alfred and I handled it, you can too.”

“Gross,” Tony muttered. “He definitely didn’t do that. I mean, please tell me he didn’t do that.”

“Sorry.”

/end


	6. Chapter 6

The gunshots are still ringing in his ears when he leaps into the alley. 

A block away, one of the shooters trips over a trash can, fumbling with his gun. Bruce ignores him, kneeling at Jason’s side. 

“Hood,” he says, not expecting a response. 

The younger man is motionless on the alley floor. His chest moves slightly under the armor; at his side, the jacket is dark with blood, seeping slowly into the leather. 

“ _ Hood _ .” 

There’s a hitched gasp under the mask. Bruce releases the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. 

“ _ F-fuck _ ,” Jason says, like he’s holding back something worse. He shifts slightly, gasping in pain. “...B?”

Bruce doesn’t process the nickname, or the small way Jason says it. With implied permission, he prods gently at the wound. He moves his gloves up Jason’s sides, feeling his ribs. 

“ _ Fuck _ .” Jason says, when he’s hovering on the third rib. Bruce nods, reaching for the clasp under the mask. The younger man shifts awkwardly in his grip. “You don’t need to--I don’t have a  _ concussion _ .”

“I need to check,” Bruce says. He pulls off the mask, flashing a penlight in furious green eyes. “How many fingers?”

“None,” Jason growls, closing his eyes. “ _ Fuck,  _ that’s bright--”

Bruce puts away the penlight, reaching for his neck. He pushes aside the leather jacket. Muscle trembles underneath his fingers, still shaky from the rush of adrenaline. Could be fear. Could be shock. 

“Are you--are you almost done?”

“Stab wound,” he murmurs, glancing around to make sure they’re not being watched. “A few cracked ribs. Might be broken. No spinal damage. Can you stand?”

Jason puts out a hand, leveraging his weight forward. His face goes suddenly, startlingly white. 

Bruce catches him before he can fall backward, carefully laying him against the brick. 

“No.” Jason chokes out, struggling to keep his voice level. His fist slams against the brick. Bruce looks away, knowing how hard it is for him to admit weakness, even indirectly. “I don’t think I--I don’t think I can.” 

He reaches into his belt, pulling out an anesthetic compound. He uncaps it, hovering over Jason’s thigh. The younger man ignores his gaze. “Do you have a safehouse nearby?”

“Above Wando’s,” Jason slurs. His eyes are already turning glassy. He’s minutes, maybe seconds away from shock. “5B.”

Bruce jabs the needle into his leg, pressing the plunger slowly. Jason gasps as the painkillers hit his bloodstream, shuddering. 

When he’s sure enough was absorbed, he pulls the younger man into a modified fireman’s carry, avoiding the broken ribs on the left side. It takes a second to balance them, until Bruce is sure he can walk straight. 

“...the hell’d you put in that…” Jason murmurs against his shoulder, already half-unconscious. “...ketamine?”

There was a moment of silence. 

"Bruce--"

“...yes.” 

“No….fucking way.” Jason says. He’s unconscious a second later, breathing softly. 

Bruce grits his teeth, shifting him one last time, and starts heading west.

* * *

Jason wakes up halfway through the third line of stitches. 

Bruce has a palm against his sternum before he can sit up, working the needle through the next stitch. When he’s sure Jason won’t ruin the sutures, he drops his hand. 

_ Fifteen,  _ he counts, squinting as he starts the next loop. The light from Jason’s shitty table lamp is barely enough to see by. He makes a note to buy a new one and have it sent over some time next week.  _ IKEA, maybe,  _ he thinks,  _ with the rotating arm.  _

“---whr’e you doin’...” Jason says. He cranes his head forward, struggling to catch a glimpse of his chest. “.... _ hey.  _ G’ _ off _ …”

Bruce brushes away his hand, grinning. Jason stares at the hand blocking his vision in the half-fascinated, half-perplexed way only painkillers can create. 

If he wasn’t wearing the bottom half of the batsuit, this could almost be a normal moment. 

“Should have let Alfred do ‘em.” Jason lets his head fall back against the couch, breathing out through his nose. “Ow.”

Bruce grunts, threading the needle through a particularly difficult piece of skin. “I gave you a local anesthetic. You’re fine.”

“You’re not as….neat.” Jason’s gaze wanders, drifting away from his face. Suddenly, he’s smiling up at the ceiling. “Hey. This is my safehouse.”

“Yep.” Bruce tapes a piece of gauze over the stitches, pressing it into place. “You even have beer in the fridge.”

“You went in my fridge,” Jason sighs, eyes closing. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth. “Of course you did.”

“Stay still. I need to tape your ribs.”

“What ribs?” the younger man asks, painfully casual. The forced smile sent Bruce’s way is _almost_ convincing. “They’re fine.”

“These ribs?” Bruce asks, brushing a hand over Jason’s side. 

The younger man flinches, gasping quietly. He sends Bruce a betrayed look. 

“Oh. You didn’t mean  _ those  _ ribs.” Bruce says, unwrapping the gauze with a brief flash of sympathy. “Lean forward.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a--a  _ mean  _ old man?” Jason asks, but does what he says. “Huh? Are you even listening to me?”

“This would be easier if you were still unconscious.” 

Jason spits blood, his chest moving in something that could almost be a laugh. “I know.” he chokes out. 

Bruce presses his fingers along the ribs, double-checking his work from earlier. He passes over the stab wound, a pang of worry going through him. 

“This one might be broken,” he says, pressing down lightly on his left side. Jason jerks underneath him, sending the suture kit flying. 

“ _ You--ah, _ ” he gasps, “--you  _ fucking think so _ ?” 

Bruce ignores the vice grip around his wrist, reaching for the gauze. He measures out the correct length, taping it to Jason’s side in quick, efficient movements. “Can I lift you?”

Jason turns away, lips pressed together tightly. His face is ashen in the low light, covered in sweat. 

Bruce waits him out, silent. 

“Yes,” Jason finally says, muffled by the couch. “Lift away, lifty man.”

Bruce wedges a knee under his hip, grabbing the roll of gauze. He wraps the ribs quickly, tying off the binding before the younger man can take a breath. 

“Done,” he says, settling Jason back on the couch. They’re both breathing quickly. “You want more painkillers?”

“I’ll take a beer,” Jason says. Neither of them mention the tears welling in his eyes. “If you’re, uh, offering.”

“I’m not.”

“Heathen,” Jason mumbles, turning his head into the arm of the couch. “I think the room is spinning.”

“That’s the drugs.”

“I don’t think I’ve been this high in my  _ life _ ,” Jason says, slowly, like it’s a realization. 

“I’d hope not.” Bruce says, packing up the first aid kit. He stands, carrying the bloody towels towards the kitchen. 

Before he gets two steps away from the couch, Jason’s head jerks up. 

“ _ Bruce. _ ” he says, wide-eyed. “Who did you test this on?”

“Mice,” Bruce lies, glancing at the kitchen. “It was 99.9% effective as a pain relieving substitute.”

“Lies,” Jason says, waving vaguely in his direction. “You were--you were testing it on  _ yourself.” _

The tone of betrayal in his voice almost has Bruce cracking a smile. “Maybe once,” he says, struggling to keep a blank expression. 

“I’m--I’m telling _Gordon_!” Jason flings his head back into the cushion, exhaling into the fabric. “Batman does _drugs_.”  
  
  
/end


	7. investigation

Clark Kent is determined to dig up dirt on Gotham Billionaire Bruce Wayne. When a series of confusing interactions point to corruption and more cover-ups than a third world dictatorship, he’s forced to reevaluate his plan of attack. 

AKA, the identity!porn superbat au where Clark investigates Bruce Wayne with the help of none other than Batman himself. Credit to (someone on tumblr???) for the prompt.

* * *

The temp papers were in his hand. His notes were carefully hidden in between his lunch, tucked into a ziplock. He had Perry’s business card in his back pocket, just in case, Lois’ number set as his first speed dial. 

He got off the bus on the corner, walking slowly. Wayne Tower was imposing in the typical Gotham sunrise, its tinted glass disappearing into the fog. People hurried in and out of the lobby, briefcases and purses in hand. 

Clark Kent didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. There was little light in Gotham, both metaphorically and literally. Puff piece editorials were laughed out of the  _ Gazette,  _ scrapped in place of gloomy op-eds about the spike in crime, or the latest escapades of the famed Bat. Superman, by proxy, didn’t belong here either. His co-founder had never given him permission, nor was he inclined to. 

But a story was a story, regardless of its origin. He’d tracked its tendrils from Lex Luthor to the foot of Wayne Tower, and a daunting facade had never stopped him before. 

With a slight slump in his shoulders, he shuffled into the lobby, bumping into no less than three irritated Gothamites on the way in. At the security checkpoint, he handed the temp application to the guard, nodding slightly. 

“Wayne get another file clerk?” the guard grunted, chewing on a stick of gum at thirty miles an hour. “Fifth one this week, for chrissakes.”

“I just go where they tell me,” Clark said meekly, receiving the papers back with another grunt. “Can I go through?”

“Sure,” the guard drawls, pointing at the metal detector. “Eighty-fifth floor. Don’t fuck up, kid.”

Clark smiled in thanks, putting his bag on the conveyor belt and stepping through the machine. A thin, balding guard watches him like a hawk, scanning his torso with a wand. He gives him a wave, and suddenly, he’s in. Bag in hand, he takes off for the elevators. 

The ride up is smooth. The elevator is pristine, the darkened glass spotless. Hurried-looking secretaries and businessmen file in and out of the small space, until, finally, it’s just him. He presses the button for the 85th floor and begins taking mental notes, hearing Lois’ voice in the back of his head.  _ Not having a notepad isn’t an excuse, Smallville.  _

The elevator doors open with a pleasant  _ ding _ . The top floor of Wayne Tower instantly awards him with almost 360 degrees of Gotham. A granite desk faced him, a woman with model-status cheekbones at its helm. 

“Temp?” she asked, looking only mildly displeased. Clark handed her the paperwork, getting a stiff nod in return. “Head back to the filing room. We’re swamped with Lori out sick, so just start putting files into the marked folders, alright? I’ll be back in a few minutes to check in on you.”

“Of course. Thank you.” He stumbles a little on the way to the filing room, earning a stifled giggle. He’s committing everything to memory as he goes, from the hushed voices in the conference room, to the expensive handbag sitting at the receptionist’s feet. 

There’s another girl elbows-deep in the filing cabinet when he walks in. She pops her head up, smiling. 

“You must be the temp!”

“Clark,” he says, holding out a hand. “Clark Jones.”

“Fiona,” she shook his hand quickly, digging back into the work with a quirky grin. “I’m so excited you’re here. The office has been like a war zone with Lori out!”

“She sick?” he asks, accepting a stack of folders that he haphazardly placed on a free table. 

“Maternity leave,” the woman replies, sending him a commiserating look, “Almost a full month early, too. Thank God Bruce gave her the trimester off. Poor thing wouldn’t take it at first, either.”

Clark commits that to memory, frowning. “He gave her the last trimester off?”

“Oh, of course not,” Fiona looked horrified, handing him another stack of folders. “He gave her the second one too. Practically forced her to take it when she was getting too dizzy to stand up.”

“Sounds like a nice guy.”

“Oh, the best,” Fiona gushed, waving a hand in the direction of Wayne’s main office. “Bruce is wonderful. I was scared when I started working for him--I’d heard the rumors, you know? But he’s so polite, hardly has us do anything ourselves.”

“Rumors?” Clark asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, just that he was an idiot, or bad with his money,” Fiona looked around the small room, leaning in conspiratorially. “The running joke is that Mr. Fox is the real CEO--Bruce is just here for show. But it doesn’t matter to me--he’s nowhere near as bad as they said!”

_ Figurehead CEO,  _ Clark repeats to himself,  _ Not surprising.  _ “No scandals?”

“Oh, there’s always a few floating around,” Fiona waves him away, giggling. He makes a point of smiling reassuringly, and it seems to work. “Bruce has been in more threesomes than my sister, and she’s been  _ around,  _ if you know what I mean.” 

_ Great job. Quality information here.  _ He sighs internally, glancing at some of the papers he’s been filing on autopilot. Fiona looks like she’s expecting a response, so he chuckles awkwardly. “Oh, for sure.”

They pass the next few hours in companionable silence, trading sentences every now and then. The room was nowhere close to clean when they finished the fifth box, and even Clark can admit that the work is daunting. Filing R&D paper copies from 2005 shouldn’t be this boring. It just shouldn’t. 

On a whim, he takes a closer look at a few in the back boxes, bound together in paper that’s yellowing with the years. At first, even his reporter’s brain can’t figure out what he’s looking at. He searches quickly for any mention of LexCorp--a long shot, but it was still important enough to cover his bases well. If Lex was developing things under the table, and he’d managed to hide the brunt of it from the public, Wayne had to be an open book comparatively. Would he find it here, though? Mixed into old manifests of industrial plumbing parts--

“Clark!” Fiona’s voice nearly sends him into the wall, appearing at his side with a large box. “I need you to take this to Bruce’s office.” She smiles, mistaking his surprised expression for fear. “You’ll be  _ fine _ . Knock once, take the box to the corner and set it down. Looks like he requested it a while back, and we’re just getting it logged now. Crazy, huh?”

She holds out the darker box, similar to the one he’d been looking at before. He grabs it and makes for the hallway, peeking under the lid. With superspeed, it’s only a matter of seconds before he has the whole thing committed to memory. What is separated into thousands of pages blurs into one within his mind. 

_ Blueprints for a...terrain vehicle.  _ Interesting, and nothing new for Wayne Enterprises. Except, Clark doesn’t remember seeing anything quite like that coming out of R&D. Was it a failed prototype? Couldn’t be, not with the level of detail in the plans. 

He’s still frowning when he knocks on Wayne’s door, and almost forgets to school his features when he’s waved in. The office is three times the size of his apartment, easy, floor to ceiling windows letting shuttered light in from outside. Wayne’s desk is in the far corner, papers spread out in neat piles across its polished surface. 

The man himself is standing behind the desk, a phone to his ear. Clark gets another wave, a perfectly folded cuff thrown his way. Wayne turns, hanging up the phone, his jaw clenched. 

The only thing that betrays him is the slight jump in his heart rate. Whatever surprises Wayne when he turns around, it doesn’t show on his face. The man is either a consummate actor, or startled for some reason. He smiles briefly, blue eyes glazing over as Clark watches. 

“Just set it over there, won’t you?”

His voice is deep, deeper than he remembers from the news files. He hasn’t attended a Wayne press conference yet, but all of a sudden, he needs to. Wayne’s face is perfectly composed, the only damning evidence his pulse, which, even now, seems to have calmed. 

“Of course,” Clark scurries over to the corner, setting the box down. He straightened slowly, brushing imaginary lint off his pants. 

“Great,” Wayne says absently, turning back to his desk. He smiles, managing to look entitled  _ and  _ pitying at once. “Glad the filing’s been figured out.”

Clark’s hand tightens, ever so slightly. He opens his mouth, despite Lois shrieking in his ear. “Are there anymore boxes that go with that one?”

Wayne’s hand freezes at his side, his pulse picking up a notch. A normal human wouldn’t have noticed the change, but Clark sees it instantly, almost in real time.  _ Bingo.  _

“Why do you ask?”

Clark’s earlier observation about the timbre of his voice was completely off--now it’s almost a growl, deep enough to threaten. Maybe not so much of a tributary CEO after all, then.  _ Puppy has claws. Or is it teeth? _

“No reason,” he says hurriedly, ducking his head. He’s swearing up a storm internally, berating himself for the slip. “Just wondering.”

Wayne’s expression morphs, a smile edging onto his face. This time, Clark is assured of its authenticity--or lack thereof. “You must be the new temp.”

“Yes, sir. Clark Jones.” 

“Hmm,” Wayne turns back to his desk, sliding into his chair. He kicks up his shoes, the leather wingtips shiny enough to reflect his face. “I might be going crazy, but you look  _ just  _ like that one reporter. I  _ swear  _ I remember his name…”

Clark’s blood freezes in his veins. “Sir?”

Wayne’s still mumbling, tapping his chin. “Krint? Clint? Did a piece on the Luthor corruption scandal a few years back, didn’t he? Won a prize, or something.”

“I don’t recall, sir.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Wayne shrugs, lips twitching. There’s something cold in his eyes, behind the faux politeness and grandstanding. “I don’t really read the news, anyway. Just have a good eye for faces, I guess.”

“That must be useful,” Clark said, looking towards the door. “If that’s it…”

A perfectly trimmed eyebrow arches. “Oh, by all means, Mr. Kent--”

“Jones, sir.” 

Wayne waves him off, “Right, right. Have a nice day.”

“Sure will.” 

He nearly sprints out of the office, ducking into the hallway. The door slides shut quietly behind him, Wayne’s annoying voice muffled by the thin glass as he makes another phone call. 

_ “No, Sherri, I’ve got plans tonight. What? No, you know. The usual--twins this time. I swear!”  _ Clark rolls his eyes, still listening. “ _ Would I lie to you? Yeah, yeah. Alright, so I’ll--” _

Clark waves awkwardly at the receptionist and hurries off for the filing room. He can already imagine Lois’ rant, heat burning in his cheeks. 

_ He made you on first sight,  _ she’d say,  _ a dumbass like Brucie Wayne shouldn’t know the difference between his left and right shoes, Clark--” _

“Time to reevaluate,” he whispers to himself, eyeing the filing room. He’s not sure if he wants to go back in yet. 

There’s a janitor down the hall giving him a strange look, a trash can in front of him. He makes eye contact, which is just a terrible, terrible mistake. 

/end


End file.
